The Lost Scrolls Of Scriptophobia
by scriptophobic14
Summary: A series of one-shots set in the "TotME" universe. May be AU, may be included in the main story. Contains lightning flashes of inspiration, badly written stuff, and corny humor.
1. He Returns

He remembers.

A signal fire lit too late. An army's retreat. A king's death.

* * *

_"Fereldeeeeen!" The young king brings down his greatsword, splitting apart the genlock before him with clumsy force. Two more charge in from behind, but_ _are cut down by the last of Maric's Shield. Where once stood a force of ten thousand Ferelden soldiers lay a bloodied field littered with both human_ _and darkspawn dead._

_ Even his brothers and sisters - Grey Wardens bloodied by countless battles - were swallowed by the initial wave of darkspawn. Looking_ _back at Cailin, he sees the sheen of sweat covering the young king's fearful face. His golden armor, pristine and immaculate not two hours before, was now_ _dented and battered into awkward angles. For once, the Warden-Commander lets his disdain show. Cailan, unused to such vehemence, looks alarmed. _

_Good._ _Let him know that it was he who brought this about. Positioning the Wardens in the front lines, choosing to fight out in the open, letting the mabari loose_ _instead of letting them join Loghain's flanking army?! What sort of Maker-forsaken fool was this king? Maric would have rolled over in his grave at the sight_ _of his son shaking in his frivolous showpiece of armor._

* * *

Two blades pierce his chest. Cold fire licks up his spine as his sight returns to him. In spite of the slimy black oil of the Call, he sees a face he cannot forget. Eyes that - like his mother's so long ago - burned deep into his soul.

* * *

_He sees that is the end; knows it in his bones. But the Ferelden in his blood pushed it aside, hammering duty and service taught by example and blood. For_ _the thousandth time in the eternity of battle, he lifts his twin blades against the sea of malformed darkspawn. He had lost his shield - and the strength to use_ _it -some time before, reverting back to the way he fought back when he was strong, fast and dumb. _

_He sees a hurlock striding towards him, the unnaturally_ _large sword it wielded slick with red blood. In the chaos of it all, he felt no fear. He leans to the right as the creature strikes, the blade not even grazing his_ _armor. A quick counter coats him in the black of tainted blood. He walks on, absorbing the acid-like pain of Taint on his skin with detachment. Two more_ _darkspawn are in his way, genlocks already wounded by unlucky warriors. Before he could engage them, King Cailan rushes them from their plank, decapitating_ _one and distracting the other. _

_The twin blades sing sluggishly through the gloomy air. Again, he saves the idiot king. Cailan smiles at him, the glee of a child at_ _play. He snorts, but suddenly flies through the air from a force that crushes his side. He looks up to see the son of Maric the Savior crushed in the gigantic fist_ _of an ogre. Bloodlust fills him to bursting, the pain swept aside by rage and frustration. Anger at Cailin's stupidity, his silence, and the darkspawn give him the_ _strength to carry the blades one last time. _

_In a cruel joke of fate, he kills the ogre as the signal is finally lit. Looking up, he sees the lonely blaze against a dark_ _sky. "It is done. You have done what you can. Live on, Wardens." He senses the hurlock behind him, feels the axe singing towards the back of his neck. And_ _he kneels, accepting his Calling. "Live on." Darkness. Or so it seemed._

* * *

"By the Maker! That Alpha almost got me there. Thanks, Lex." The blonde templar - Alistair - shook his head, sending a shower of sweat towards his fellow Grey Warden.

* * *

"I swear, Alistair, I'm _this_ close to buying your 'raised by dogs' story. Really, I - " The other Warden - Alexion, he thinks with no small amount of sorrow stops short of him, ice-blue eyes meeting his own. Recognition hits the elf like a rockslide, features morphing into one of shock. "Lex, are you all right?" "Yes, I'm fine. I just, erm, need some time to scavenge the corpse. Go back and check on the others for a bit." Alistair's footsteps faded into the distance. Alexion kneels down, tears brimming in his eyes. A single word, filled with an emotion he could not name, broke the silence. _"Duncan."_


	2. He Returns 2

"How?" Alexion's voice was so raw – so filled with grief – that Duncan, in his ruined husk of a body, turned away in shame. Though he was no narcissist, the Warden-Commander of Ferelden acknowledged his body with pride, the same way a warrior would boast of a well-forged sword. Seeing himself like this, mottled gray skin replacing olive brown Rivaini, body parts barely held together by metal thread and unholy spellcraft, proved more than he could bear.

Duncan sobbed, the sound warped by his ruined throat into a raspy growl. No tears streamed down his desecrated face. How could they when all that coursed through his veins was the sickening modification of darkspawn blood, _his _work. "Duncan. Talk to me." Despite his present condition, the half-Rivaini clearly heard the pity in the younger Warden's voice, sensed the undercurrent of disgust and fear. Pride – what was left of it –gave him the strength to speak in harsh, alien tones.

_"It. All started. When I. Died."_

* * *

_The axe cleaved lower into him than he expected. Instead of his exposed nape, the tainted steel sank into his back, pain searing into his body with ruthless_ _abandon. Already bone-deep in exhaustion, Duncan felt darkness claim him. When he came to, another form of darkness met his sight. He moved to rise, but_ _he felt the vice of rusty manacles clamp down on his limbs. _

_"Where – Where am I?" Duncan's voice echoed hollowly in the light-starved room. After some_ _thought, he guessed that he was in some sort of torture chamber. He did not know how long he lay there, spread-eagled and naked in total blindness. Silence_ _was tangible in that room; and the Warden-Commander itched for release. He could feel the throb of his wounds, yet felt no pain. Curious, he bit his lower lip_ _forcefully. He drew blood, could taste it in his mouth, but felt none of the pain that came with it._

* * *

_"It is an anesthetic of my own creation, dulling the sensation of pain while sparing the user the deprivation of feeling." A voice cut through the blackness, soft_ _spoken and modulated. At once, Duncan felt the pull of the Taint, the oily tendrils tugging at his will. Only his long service to the Grey Wardens gave him the_ _skill to hide the effort it took to resist the Call. A Call that should only belong to a single creature only: the Archdemon. "What sort of darkspawn are you?"_

_Through the Taint's link, Duncan felt a wave of hesitation – and surprise – at his biting query. "Darkspawn? I am the Architect, as you can clearly see_ _yourself." "Right. I'm half-Rivaini, not some dwarf born and bred in the Deep Roads." Despite himself, the Warden-Commander let loose a bit of the sarcasm he_ _was notorious for when he was younger. He caught himself after, but shrugged inwardly. A near-death experience seemed able to override a lifetime of restraint, but_ _he could not find it in himself to be regretful. Seeing as how the darkspawn and he were alone, restraint could be set aside for the moment._

* * *

_"You… cannot see? Hm, this is regrettable. It seems that a side effect of my potion is blindness as well. I must take note of this." Blind?! Being robbed of sight_ _was enough to infuriate any sane man, but the way this creature wrote it off like a magical experiment gone slightly awry made Duncan's blood boil. He surged_ _upward, unmindful of the pressure on his limbs, aware yet unaffected by the way the iron sliced into his joints. _

_As soon as the Architect took notice, an_ _invisible force slammed him down sternly, like the way a rider would chide his horse. Magic! Captor, alchemist, now mage; what more could this Architect be._ _"A revolutionary." Duncan froze. In his earlier attempts at harnessing the hive-mind of the darkspawn, he had slipped into the personas of his enemy – just as_ _most novices would – and only retreated back into his own body with an enormous pull of willpower. To think this one could do so effortlessly was, for lack of a_ _better word – "Terrifying. I am sorry, Warden-Commander. If we were captives to a better set of circumstance, I could have shared my dream of freedom with_ _you. As it is, you must suffice as my test subject. Farewell, Duncan of the Grey Wardens." _

_A metal tube pierced his thigh, the small point delicately_ _nestling into the artery. And then, a draining motion. Duncan panicked, tried to move. But the invisible force kept him in its place as surely as a mountain of_ _rock would. With nothing left to lose, he screamed._

* * *

_"Now. Here I. Am." _All throughout his tale, Alexion had brought out his dagger. The blonde elf played with the blade, face half-shadowed in thought. "Yes. Here you are in the Deep Roads, lives away from the defeat at Ostagar. What would Ali do if he found out." The young Warden's voice was monotone and, as his eyes met the milky white of Duncan's, the dead man's gaze was there as well, as though he had just mutilated Vaughan Urien yet again.

_"You. Know what must. Be done." _

Duncan tried to smile, but his muscles did not listen, instead twisting themselves into a horrid snarl. Silence.

Even without an answer, Duncan knew. Knew that Alexion had slipped into his blank-faced mask to shield himself as much as Duncan. Knew that he was no longer speaking to Alexion Tabris, but to the Warden of Denerim's Alienage. _"A. Final Question." _The Warden nodded, his dagger already poised above what was once Duncan's heart. _"How is. He." _

The dagger shook, the mask slipping by increments. "He will make the fine king. I will make sure of it." Alexion whispered, the smallest tremor in his voice. _"Good." _Alexion wavered, the mask shattering in the face of his mentor. "Duncan, I – " The Warden-Commander roared in bestial fury before pulling Alexion's hand, the dagger sinking into the exposed flesh.

* * *

"Alexion!" Alistair's voice rang out behind the elf.

* * *

The Warden stood stock-still, taking in the sight before him. In his mind, two Duncans gripped his hand. One was barely recognizable, pieces of tainted flesh already falling away from his body. The other was healthy and – though not young – filled with vitality, the jet-black eyes sparkling with serious intelligence barely hiding a sea of mischievousness beneath. The oily black blood coating his hand became red, the lifeblood of his mentor and commander coating his armored fist with the stench of death.

_We are Wardens, not heroes. We lie, cheat, steal, and kill. We do what we must, by whatever_ _means necessary. _

Alexion straightened, his dead man's mask pulled tightly around him. He would break down later when he visits Morrigan, his body curled pathetically around her as he sobbed silently into the night. For now, he would be the Warden Alistair needs. The Warden Duncan would be. "It's nothing, Alistair. Just a hurlock well past his prime."


	3. Keep It Cool

Any traveler new to the land of Ferelden would speak highly of the country. Its stubbornly loyal people, the fresh fruits and vegetables it yields every year, the beautiful sights to be seen. Some even go so far as to say that it's weather is the mildest of all Thedas' lands.

Today was not the case.

Though it was almost time for winter to bathe the land in its icy breath, the sun beat down mercilessly upon Ferelden. Most particularly upon a certain travelling party. A party with an ex-templar known for his, erm, 'free expression'.

"By the Maker, it's hooooot." Alistair Theirin, bastard son of Maric the Savior, whined like a ten-year old child. He reached up to wipe the sweat off his brow, forgetting that the gauntlet he wore was forged out of silverite, a metal that - like all others - conducts heat. "**Ow!**" The Templar Warden pulled back his hand, desperately trying to ease the burn on his forehead. Leliana giggled, the silvery tones doing nothing to relieve his ego.

"Poor Alistair, always putting his hands where they shouldn't be. Tut tut." The blonde cocked an irritated eyebrow at his red-headed lover. "Well, look at you. You're lucky _your_ armor is enchanted against the elements. I'm being baked here!"

"Fried is the better term, judging by the stench, _amigo._" Zevran ruffled the Warden's hair, careful not to get too close to the heated silverite of Alistair's Warden armor. "And what is this I hear about hands being where they should not, eh?" In true Zevran fashion, his voice dropped to a sultry stage whisper at the end of the sentence, his hazel eyes turning into molten gold. Alistair flinched away from the elf, making warding signs with his hands as he began muttering half-heard lines of the Chant. Leliana, on the other hand, laughed in good nature. Despite all his dirty talk and invitations, she knew Zevran was a gentleman who only acted once express consent had been given. The fact that he once backed out when the bard had called his bluff was testament to the fact.

"Leave my Templar baby alone, you _dépraver_! And shouldn't you be even the smallest bit warm right now? The City of Antiva is near the coastline, if I remember correctly." Zevran chuckled softly, the warmth in his voice losing the edge of sexuality. "_Si_, my little ball of fire. But you forget that I am a Crow. We are used to such, shall we say, _uncomfortable_, situations." The tightness of Zevran's smile was sorely missed by Alistair, who proceeded to put his foot in his mouth yet again.

"More of the infamous Crow training, Zevran?" Leliana moved to shush the Warden, but caught the warning look in the Antivan's eyes. "No, no, no. Nothing of the sort! When I was a little Crowling - clever how we thought of such a name for our child assassins, yes? - we used to sleep in rooms with no windows and beds to speak of. Just rows upon rows of little children, like those rows of fish you see on the market." If Alistair didn't get the point at first, it was the way Zevran's stare challenged him that finally did. "I-I'm sorry, Zevran. I didn't mean to -" The ex- templar was spared from a humiliating apology by the Crow.

"Never mind, no harm done. I did not stay that long there anyway. The way things worked; the better you killed, the happier you lived. I was licking wine off of a virgin's breasts by the very next day!" The bard and the assassin shared a laugh at Alistair's expense, both finding humor in the way the Templar Warden turned beet red at the very mention of women's private parts. A delicate cough turned their attentions to Wynne and Morrigan.

Mageclouds shaded the two women from the sun, yet neither deigned to offer merging their respective spells together. When the two spells came too close to each other, one could see Wynne's blue aura protest against the dark purple of Morrigan's spellcraft. "Please stop being so noisy, children. You might scare off all the game later." Morrigan snorted haughtily at the mage's reminder. "As if a Circle-leashed woman such as yourself would know anything about living off the land. 'Tis most laughable." A tick began to develop on Wynne's temple. "You should learn to respect your elders, _girl_." "And it would be quite well for you to recognize your betters, _cat lady_."

Pale grey eyes met gold in a clash of wills. Only to be interrupted by a well-meaning Templar.

"Well, erm, if you two have that much energy to argue... could you spread the blessings a little bit? It's getting quite warm in here." "**NO.**" The magic in both woman carried over to their refusal, sending Alistair tumbling end over end with a blast of willpower. Wrex bounded over Alistair and, with what he believed to be a helping gesture, slobbered all over the man. The mabari's saliva made contact with the hot silverite, steam and stink rising in great quantity. "Ewww. Wrex! Bad mabari, bad!" Alistair rolled around the dirt in a feeble attempt to escape the smell of mabari breath combined with human sweat.

The only thing he succeeded in was breaking the tension between both mages by sending Zevran and Leliana into a laughing fit. "I'm sorry - HAHAHA! - Alistair, it's just too - HAHAHAH!" Leliana kneeled down, unable to keep her laughter at bay.

Zevran was already sitting down, the air knocked out of his lungs as he tried to gasp for breath amidst sharp guffawing exhales.

Morrigan and Wynne, above such juvenile behavior most of the time, allowed a small smile to cross their faces.

Wrex barked happily. _Wrex is a good boy! _He thought to himself.

In desperation, Alistair shed his Warden armor, throwing it and the mabari - stench it carried - aside. By now, the party had long stopped walking.

"Alright, alright. That's enough." He put his hands on his hips and tried to fix a stern gaze on his face, but to no avail. "Of all the - Hey! Where's Alexion?"

"I'm right behind Sten, hiding in his shadow! Warden's gotta keep it cool, y'know?" The elf Warden's voiced piped up behind the qunari's looming frame.

Sten of the Beresaad snorted, "Parshaara."


	4. Of Angry Elves

**1. Chained**

He leaps from the shadows, half-mad from blood loss and grief. A soundless howl contorts his pale face as he dives into the _shem_ crowded over his mother's corpse. He grabs unto the first neck he can find, the white rage in his belly turning him demonic. Their shock turns to anger, and then fear as they see him - truly _see_ - and the pale lyrium markings on his face. In their terror, they wield cudgels with a strength that almost matches him. It is not enough. Ten men, _shem_lords all of them. Ten men he kills for his mother's Fang. He sinks into darkness, his battered form slumping into the road dyed red.

**2. Avenger**

It had been too long. The half-forgotten memories of Adaia's death swirl sluggishly in the back of his mind. He wields the dagger and blade with a silent abandon. The _shem_Warden - Duncan, he corrects himself lamely - had given him all that he needed to save Shianni. To save his bride. The thought of Nesiara in the hands of Vaughan almost snaps his iron control, yet he tamps it down. He knows that the element of surprise was all the hope he had. Two guards emerge from the corner of the hall. The first goes down, a crossbow bolt lodged in his throat. Recklessly, he rushes the remaining one (he had forgotten Soris was with him!) and sinks both blades into the _shem's_chest. A look of disbelief, a pitiful whimper, and then the human dies.

**3. Snapped**

He sees the nobleman paw at Shianni's nakedness, sees the hand clamped over her sobbing face. Bestial lust turns their faces into something inhuman, something beyond pity and reason. He sees Vaughan's mouth move, yet hears nothing. The roar in his ears proves too much. He loses control, slipping into the killer's mask that he had abandoned so long ago. The blades are light in his hands, singing steel instruments of his art.

Stab, parry, slash, roll, duck.

Now Vaughan is the only one that remains, backing away as his left hand fails to staunch the bleeding stump. He moves in for the kill, but cruelty demanded otherwise. What he was about to do was wrong and vile and sadistic. And he loved it. He sheathes Duncan's sword and advances, the torchlight glinting wickedly across the edge of the knife. As he makes the first of a thousand cuts, Vaughan soils himself. The screams that echoed across the stone halls would haunt him to this very day.

**4. Marsh**

He knows better than to trust the words of the Templar Warden, knows that even Duncan would disapprove. But as he stares into the milky white eyes of pure Maker-forsaken _evil_, he knew that he could not stand against them. Not he of the Alienage, of the quick wit and the cocky grin. He reaches down to the darkest parts in him, shivers in anticipation as he slips into his marauder's mask. To think that he would be called hero by nightfall!

He starts to laugh as he leads the charge, dark chuckles rising to savage laughter as he lifts his blades. Through the haze of his battle-craze, he could see the knight and thief flinch away from him. Only Alistair, suddenly a grim-faced warrior, stood beside him. His crazed laughter echoed in the marsh, the eerie echoes rendering the sound terrifyingly alien. As the last of the spawn were felled, his companions turned to him in wide-eyed fear. "Maker, are you possessed?" He gives a final guffaw before willing himself clean again. It would be much later when he would notice the shaking of his sweaty hands.

**5. Ogre**

He flew through air, the rain and thunder music to his ears. How mad he must seem, a rogue engaging an ogre head-on. But he had no time for hesitation. Hesitation was what killed Jory, throat split ear to ear by their own Warden-Commander. His train of thought was derailed as he slammed into the gigantic spawn. Its flesh felt like concrete to him, yet he still clung on in desperation. Again and again he stabbed into the beast, Fang rising and falling in time with the bloodsong that thrummed in his ear. He did not stop when the ogre, did not hear Alistair's futile attempts to rouse him from battle sleep. It took three darkspawn arrows to silence the song and plunge his world into blackness.

**6. Unbound**

He stumbles on, stubborn pride stopping both retreat and surrender. Ser Landry was many things. A blindly loyal fool who cannot see past the end of his nose? Yes. But he was an extremely skilled fool. The knight's mace had already dented most of his armor, with luck being the only thing that saved his life. He slashed weakly with his sword, only to fall back against a blistering counterattack. Panting, he looks around for anything - anything at all! - that could save his hide. All he saw was the doubt in his companions' eyes. Alistair was grinding his teeth so hard they might break. Sten looked on with the same look of disapproval he always stuck on his face. Leliana was on the verge of tears. And Morrigan – damn her! - looked amused at the sight of their great leader being played around with. No other choice in sight, he abandons the notion of honor and fair play. Again the mask is worn. In moments, Ser Landry lies face down in the dirt, a scarlet line drawn across his throat. _No honor for gutter trash, then_. He sheathes his hidden knife and stalks off, trying his best to ignore the stares of disbelief thrown his way. Morrigan smiles.

**7. Two Faces**

It had been far too long before he wears his mask again. This time, a man he had come to acknowledge as his best friend feels the sting. He brings his fists down in a rapid flurry, each strike connecting with Alistair's face with a sickening crack. A lifetime's worth of easy friendship, countless days standing by each other, all gone in the space of one word. _Knife-ear_. The insult itself was one that he had long outgrown, even going so far as to grin at with wolfish challenge in his eyes. But to hear it from the first man - no, _shem!_- he had come to respect and love as a brother... it was far too much. It had taken Sten, Leliana, and Zevran combined to pull him off the ex-templar. When he came to, when the mask was torn from his fingers, he wanted to empty his guts. The Templar Warden's face was swollen beyond recognition, cheekbones glistening white from the deep cuts. Wynne and Morrigan knelt beside him, both frowning as they tried to revive the unconscious warrior. He quakes visibly, and then runs away into the dense undergrowth. _Even if_ _it kills me. Even if I die because of it. I will master myself and my rage. I swear it._ And things were never the same afterward.


	5. Three

The man is impressive, to say the least. Tall and handsome and committed to his cause, the fire in his golden eyes burning through her. Not since the days of Calenhad the Silver had Flemeth seen such an incredible force of will spring from Theirin blood. Beside him the dark-haired rogue stands guard, angry eyes sweeping the surroundings for any threat to the young king.

_Shadows and light_, thinks Flemeth before making her decision. She casts her lot with the golden man, spinning webs of destiny for a cause that is all but doomed.

Years later, King Maric Theirin is lost at sea at the peak of his reign.

* * *

The son was – for a lack of a better word – a complete imbecile. Drunk on tales of glorious war and youthful might, Maric's son swaggers about in blissful ignorance, blind to his faults and his myriad enemies surrounding him like vultures to a corpse. Somehow, his father's shadow still lives, war and heartbreak stealing away the handsome face of the Hero of River Dane. In its place is a grim warrior, clad in stolen _chevalier _plate and wielding a blade instead of his bow.

Despite her misgivings, Flemeth once again meddles with the fates. The boy was the spitting image of his father, and gave off a charisma that was undoubtedly his own.

King Cailan the Brave perishes at the Battle Of Ostagar, crushed by a rampaging ogre.

* * *

The bastard is a disappointment to his lineage. The dragonfire within him was a candle's worth compared to the raging inferno that surged within both his father and brother. Flemeth hoped that he would redeem himself once they meet; knowing full well that strength of character did not pass by blood. Unfortunately, she would see no redemption there as well. The lad carried uncertainty and subservience like a well-worn cloak.

_No doubt a product of his upbringing_. It seemed as if between Eamon and the Chantry, any hope Alistair had of fulfilling his potential as king was well and truly crushed.

Sighing exasperatedly, Flemeth withholds her aid. The Blight would surely take this insipid man-child to his death, one way or another.

When King Alistair Theirin is crowned at the end of the Fifth Blight, Flemeth laughs from beyond the grave.

It was true then, that misfortune came in threes.


	6. Mentor

**1. Alistair**

When he speaks of mentors, his thoughts first jump to Duncan. Duncan, the long-dead Warden-Commander of Ferelden, was the lone father figure in a sea of faceless, uncaring people who would have sooner slit his throat than help him. Duncan had taught him to be a Grey Warden, to follow orders and to track and kill darkspawn and to fight with others of the Order.

He frowns and rethinks his answer.

Duncan may have been his father figure, but he was not a mentor in the strictest sense of the word. A mentor was one who taught you skills you needed to know, things that made you what you are in whatever way it would seem sensible to you.

He touches his sword and shield, and he remembers.

He grins at the memory of a dark-haired youth, too handsome by half to be called a Templar Initiate, handing him a wooden board and cudgel. He remembers the way they held a training session after every training session. Just for the two of them. It had not been long until he had beaten the boy silly without even breaking a sweat.

_"Well, it seems my work here is done_." Ser Otto smiled graciously at him, unmindful of the bruises and cuts.

He frowns.

Ser Otto was dead now, his face scarred by the flames of a maleficar and his eyes robbed of the light of the world long before his death at the hands of demons.

The next time they make camp, he offers a prayer to the kind man's soul, and thanked the Maker for a mentor such as he.

**2. Morrigan**

At the subject of mentors, her lips curl into an elegant sneer and her voice drops to a venomous hiss. She whips out the harshest of barbed insults, just enough to send the questioner a good distance away.

And then, she thinks.

'Twas true that she had hated Flemeth to the very depths of her soul. That woman was a foul creature, and deserved no less than death at the hands of the Wardens. She had lost her innocence – in more ways than one – to aid the mad schemes of the woman; all but one of them turning out to be utterly convoluted plots that she could not make head nor tail of.

But still, the woman _had _taught her. She wondered where she would have been had Flemeth not imparted on her the skill of woodcraft, of gathering reagents from the land around her, of spellcraft and potion-making, of the creation of substances not lost to the knowledge of mortal men.

What would she be if she had not been heir to the Witch's gift of shape-shifting? Would she be like any other apostate: on the run from the thrice-cursed Templars?

Most of all – and this she thought with a shudder – she would not be the woman she was if her mother were anyone but Flemeth. True, many thought of her as a power-hungry maleficar who had no conscience or capacity for compassion. 'Twould be true enough, on some level. Power had always been attractive to her, and few paths to it had seemed too dark to traverse.

To be quite truthful, she doubted that she would have even lived peacefully enough as she had if Flemeth was not her mother and mentor.

She thinks about this, and then spits spiritedly on the ground, cursing the Witch of the Wilds.

**3. Wrex**

Wrex had not known anything approaching what these two-legs call 'mentor'.

Ever since he had opened his eyes to see the world, he had been alone. He was a small dog, and was a victim of many of the other cruel dogs.

It was not until he was at the big-stone-fortress-of-two-legs – the place where he became sick with the oily-hurt-that-slowly-kills – that he had seen _him_.

Like Wrex, this two-legs was small. But he was _fierce_, and not afraid of those bigger than him.

And so, Wrex had found his pack-mate-for-life. His Alexion was called 'elf' among many other things, and had many enemies.

But his Alexion was brave and nimble, and fought with two long fangs in his hand.

So, when his Alexion's scent was lost, Wrex howled in pain and sadness. He searched long and hard for his pack-mate-for-life, not caring for food or water till he had found him.

And find him he did, with the two-legs-smelling-like-cheese and a woman who was a sky-fire-bringer.

He fought against the oily ones beside his Alexion, and was happy when he had his ear scratched after. Wrex loved his ear scratches.

"Well, don't we make a pair. Two little runts acting big and tough."

Wrex wagged his tail at his Alexion's voice. It was nice and deep and felt like sunlight in his belly.

Wrex thinks that's what a mentor is.

**4. Leliana**

Leliana smiles indulgently, her cheeks dimpling in mirth as she launches into a tale of her girlhood. Orlais was not kind to new orphans. It was commonplace for the nobles to throw out anyone who has ceased to be a useful tool. Even the commoners showed the same cold-hearted callousness. Who would want another mouth to feed when one's children already went hungry?

Thank the Maker that Lady Cecilie was not your average noble.

Not only did the dear woman take Leliana in as one of her own, Lady Cecilie went above and beyond the call of charity. To this day, the red-haired bard feels lucky to have learnt so much of the gentle arts from her adopted mother. None can say that Leliana would be an inadequate housekeeper.

And then, the bubbly smile slips from the bard's face.

A dark undertone colors her voice as she recalls her entry into the Grand Game, how she met Marjolaine, how she had been smitten by the self-sure brunette. How she had become addicted to the power of politics and intrigue.

Under Marjolaine's tutelage, Leliana learned the more insidious uses of a woman's skills. She learnt how cooking a meal and brewing poisons was not so different, how seduction could take the guise of innocent conversation, how one must keep two appearances: one for enemies and another for friends.

Leliana pauses, and looks away. Tears threaten to fall from her eyes.

_Mentors_, she says, _can take many forms. _She wipes away the salty liquid and gives a weak smirk.

_Pray that you learn from them unscathed._

**5. Sten**

The pale-skinned _qunari_ snorts at the question.

If he were true to himself, he would have admitted his confusion. There were no such things as mentors in the _Qun_. Such familiarity and fondness between two individuals would undoubtedly hinder the learning process, and was thus inefficient.

He knows of teachers, for he had many. The _Tamassrans _taught him the history of his peoples, how the _kossith_ found enlightenment and sought to spread it to others. They gave him his name and purpose, placed him in an _aad_ of children who were most compatible with him. They honed his body and mind with exercises and drills, demanding nothing short of complete mastery.

Combat. Warfare. History. Leadership. Economics. Mathematics. Linguistics. Writing. Art. At the hands of their priests, the _Sten_ was molded and formed with a gentle precision into a being worthy of the name _qunari_.

All that he is, and all that he would ever need to be, is to the credit of the _Tamassrans_. But instead of saying this, Sten waves a large hand in dismissal.

_Parshaara, we waste enough time as it is. _

**6. Wynne**

Wynne had many teachers, mages who taught her how to weave the Fade to her will and call forth magic with words of power and gestures of summoning. The names and faces are blurred by time and faulty memory, the men and women dead and gone.

One thing Wynne does remember is how she found herself an undying mentor.

It was a warm summer's day when she stumbled into her discovery as an escape from boredom. Almost immediately, worlds of possibility flourished before her, giving her the power to be anything and anyone at anytime and anyplace. The white-haired mage shudders at the thought of such limitless power.

Sometimes, her mentor would fall apart, groaning and shuddering at the edges of destruction. But always Wynne would bring it back with a spell muttered in feverish tones. She would never – _never _– let her mentor fall into the Void. Not while she drew breath.

_What can I say, I love books and I cannot lie. _

**7. Oghren**

_Mentor?! What in the soddin' Stone are ye talking about. _Oghren belches without ceremony and takes another long pull from his flagon.

_Self-taught and self-dependent. Hail Paragon Oghren, baby. Heh-heh._

**8. Zevran**

Zevran remains silent for the longest time before looking into the questioner's eyes.

_Enough of such nonsense. How about a relaxing Antivan massage? _The purr of his voice is too much to bear, and the questioner accepts.

Why not? Zevran is irresistible.


	7. Codex Entry: On The Assassins Of Thedas

Try as one might to deny the fact, it is generally accepted that a well-developed country would not last long without the presence of its underworld.

True, there have been glaring exceptions to this (if one would count on the tales of Arlathan and early Ferelden legend as fact), yet all throughout recorded history the two sides of society remain: the normal upstanding citizenry and the denizens of the underworld.

There can be no clearer embodiment of this than the assassins of Thedas. From northern Tevinter to the far-flung shores of Par Vollen, men and women trained in the subtle art of murder have long since shaped Thedas as we know it.

Though there are many groups of assassins as there are streets in Val Royeaux, seven organizations have commanded the most authority and notoriety from those in the highest and lowest of stations.

Most recognized of the seven are none other than the Crows of Antiva, political killers who have held the nation of Antiva in the palm of their hands for many generations. Most of its members are elves and orphans, with the methods of their training going well beyond the borders of what can be called humane.

Crows are known to be efficient with the use of poisons, able to kill a target outright or prolong death by agonizing weeks. Despite their unsavory reputation, the Antivan Crows strictly follow through with contracts drawn up with their clientele. Few individuals have ever eluded the blades of the Crows due to their persistent pursuit of the target's death.

Next in fame are the Shadows of The Empire in Orlais. Handpicked by the Empress herself from the large pool of bards and bardmasters, these Shadows are known for their subtlety and devotion to the Empress. Most of these Shadows are sent into rival countries as sleeper agents, assimilating into foreign territory.

The waiting period could last as long as a decade or could barely reach a month's time, but the aftermath of the assassination would be the same: once a Shadow has completed his or her mission, he or she slinks back into the appointed role. It is because of this ability to remain dormant for such a long time that Shadows are almost never caught.

Below the lands of Ferelden, a more violent group of murderers roam the caverns of Orzammar. The Carta, composed entirely of casteless dwarves, have held a tenuous grip on the castes for quite some time, more prone to outright extortion and overt violence than the subtle maneuverings of a typical assassin's guild.

However, such brazen fearlessness has lent the Carta an air of invincibility and prestige, a constant threat to the castes and a symbol of hope for the casteless of Dust Town.

It was only during the Fifth Blight that the Carta was finally demolished by none other than the Hero of Ferelden.

Across the sea at the infamous City of Chains, the Coterie strives to apply the Carta's methods to the folk of Kirkwall. Originally a splinter faction of the Carta, the Coterie struck out on its own once the news of Beraht's death reached their ears. Shrugging off its practices of dwarven exclusivity, the Coterie opened its doors to any and all who wished to join its ranks.

By the time the Fifth Blight had ended, the majority of the Coterie's gangs were led by Ferelden refugees driven from their country by the encroaching darkspawn.

Two of the seven assassin organizations operated not for gold and clout, but for religious purposes. The _Ben-Hassrath_ of the qunari people and the Bringers of Absolution in the Anderfels were perhaps among the most disciplined of spies and assassins by virtue of their purpose.

_Ben-Hassrath_ primarily functioned as the military police of the qunari, yet were soon discovered to be sending out numerous agents into lands both with and without qunari presence. For obvious reasons, only humans and elves were able to infiltrate countries that remained free of the _kossith_ race. Their purpose still remains unknown, though there have been strings of unrelated crimes committed in the name of the _Qun_.

The Bringers of Absolution served as the will of the king, bringing down the Maker's wrath on those who would defy the Will of Andraste. This single-minded devotion to their cause resulted in public executions in broad daylight. To their credit, the Bringers possess combat ability fierce enough to dissuade any who would dare stand in their way.

The last entry to these groups of assassins is relatively new, having been founded months after the end of the Fifth Blight.

The organization being mentioned is that of the Daggers of Arlathan, rumored to be founded by the Hero of Ferelden himself. The Daggers are a pro-elven faction tasked with the mission of ensuring that the rights of elvenkind would soon equal that of first-class citizens.

Though the goal was deemed to be lofty and unattainable by many of those who have heard of it, the Daggers have so far enjoyed great successes in their quest. Many whisper that it is because these elven assassins were trained by a former Crow with the skills of a Guildmaster. Others claim that the Crown itself supported its cause. Still others say that the Hero of Ferelden had bequeathed a huge amount of treasure to the Daggers, thus funding their exploits for many years.

What is known as fact, at least, is that none of the Fereldan nobility had dared to risk the wrath of the Daggers of Arlathan.

- _An excerpt from "The Changing Times: Recent Events In Thedas" by Brother Genitivi_


End file.
